It is a natural part of civilisation’s lust of re-arrangement that we should be so ready to conventionalise the beauty of this world into decorative patterns for our pilgrim tents. It is a phase, and will melt into other phases; but it tends to the increase of artificiality, and exists not only in art but in everything. It is no new thing for jaded sentiment to crave the spur of the unnatural, to prefer the clever imitation, to live in a Devachan where the surroundings appear that which we would have them to be; but it is an interesting record of the pulse of the present day that ‘An Englishwoman’s Love Letters’ should have taken society by storm in the way it certainly has. It is a delightful book to leave about, with its vellum binding, dainty ribbons, and the hallmark of a great publisher’s name. But when we seek within we find love with its thousand voices and wayward moods, its shy graces and seemly reticences, love which has its throne and robe of state as well as the garment of the beggar maid, love which is before time was, which knew the world when the stars took up their courses, presented to us in gushing outpourings, the appropriate language of a woman’s heart to the boor she delights to honour. “It is woman who is the glory of man,” says the author of ‘The House of Wisdom and Love,’ “_Regina mundi_, greater, because so far the less; and man is her head, but only as he serves his queen.” Set this sober aphorism against the school girl love-making which kisses a man’s feet and gaily refuses him the barren honour of having loved her first. There is scant need for the apologia which precedes the letters; a few pages dispels the fear that we are prying into another’s soul. As for the authorship, there is a woman’s influence, an artist’s poorly concealed bias in the foreign letters; and for the rest a man’s blunders—so much easier to see in another than to avoid oneself—writ large from cover to cover. King Cophetua, who sends “profoundly grateful remembrances,” has most surely written the letters he would wish to receive. “Mrs Meynell!” cries one reviewer, triumphantly. Nay, the saints be good to us, what has Mrs Meynell in common with the “Englishwoman’s” language, style, or most unconvincing passion? Men can write as from a woman’s heart when they are minded to do so in desperate earnestness—there is Clarissa Harlowe and Stevenson’s Kirstie, and many more to prove it; but when a man writes as the author of the “Love Letters” writes, I feel, as did the painter of the frieze, that pattern-making has gone too far and included that which, like the grass, should be spared such a convention.